Comeback
by librophile
Summary: Doctor Watson had always seen the battlefield. First it was Afghanistan, then it was London with Sherlock Holmes. Now that Sherlock is gone, he's back in the war. No slash.


Comeback

Captain Watson. Army surgeon, behind the lines now instead of in the forefront, but it was being back in the war that mattered. Mycroft Holmes had been right all those years ago – he missed the war, being able to _do something_ about people lost and in pain and suffering when no one could help them. Sherlock had provided an outlet for that time and time again, even if at times it came at John's own detriment, but he had accepted the risk the same day he had decided to save the life of Sherlock Holmes, amateur detective and best friend.

That had all ended, though, when said friend had decided to walk off a building for reasons still unknown to him.

He still couldn't convince himself that Sherlock was dead. If nothing else, Sherlock was too stubborn to give in to whatever had forced him off that ledge. And people had faked their deaths before, he knew that better than most of London's populace and police force combined (given the amount of times the two of them had been called in to clear up a point, or just John on a few rare occasions… after).

John tried not to think about it.

It was too difficult to clear up. Since he was reasonably sure, by pure logic if not possibilities ("_Eliminate the impossible, John!_") that his best friend was still out there… somewhere… that inevitably led to _where_, and why he hadn't trusted John with the information. Not even a brief, passing word through one of their contacts.

But of course, Sherlock Holmes was hardly known for his social niceties.

A brilliant flash and deafening boom made John duck instinctively, his mind telling him a split moment later that it was too far away to do any harm – at least to his post.

It was John's rather belated lunch break right now, which was why he was slouched in front of a desk with a lukewarm cup of tea and a pile of mishandled paperwork instead of in the surgery. Despite what the doctors had said (and despite their misdiagnosis, he couldn't really be mad at them) his skills had suffered very little damage from the bullet through his shoulder, though on occasion he was duty imposed to hand over more delicate cases to someone else. It was a reasonable clause though, and he was just glad to be back on the job.

_ Crash!_

John flinched. Complete with explosions.

It didn't particularly help, John reflected with a dark glance in the direction of the most recent boom, that he had shared a flat with a man who had quite cheerfully 'borrowed' disarmed bombs from the Yard and listed off all the damage they could do to an area, thankfully recovering some tact part way through and skipping the topic of what they could do to a _person_. Even a socially-deficient (not sociopath, thank-you-very-much) flatmate knew better than to discuss that topic within earshot of an ex-soldier too recently returned from situations like he was in now.

Before he had been initially discharged, John reflected grimly, this wouldn't have been an issue. John Watson had become acclimatized to war, knew the trajectory and general range of a missile almost instinctively. It hadn't been until _after_ his return to London that he had developed a case of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, which had cleared up within hours of meeting first one, and then both Holmes brothers.

Perhaps it was the change of area – though who knew.

After all, Captain John Watson didn't know anyone offhand (besides himself, that is), who suffered from PTSD after leaving the suburbs of London.

It was only thanks to Mycroft's (unasked for, but still not-so-surprisingly omniscient) assistance that John had re-landed his position in the army in the first place. It had come with a mile-long train of paperwork, but by promising to stay out of the front lines if at all possible John had managed to get out of Baker Street, out of sight, out of mind, and out of London.

And back to the minute-by-minute explosions that, instead of recalling images of his past service in Afghanistan, instead called up images of a darkened swimming pool and Semtex vest.

Sherlock would laugh.

"Doctor Watson!" John jerked sharply to attention, accidentally sending one sheet spiraling off the table and catching the others with disorganized ease as the dark-haired orderly gasped out, "We're needed on the field, sir. One of the trucks was caught too close to the explosion, they need medical attention and evac, now."

"What about the regular teams?" John demanded, already snagging his field bag from the corner and hurrying toward the door.

"Emergency, sir. Our troops were hit bad and you're the next person in line for this," the orderly gasped, rushing after him. "You're the one with experience, sir."

John didn't bother asking further questions, instead barking orders at his fellow medicos with a practiced ease that despite his year as a civilian hadn't disappeared from heavily ingrained habit. "Get the operations crew ready," he ordered, "that close to an explosion there'll be immediate need for it. Have a second crew on stand-by in case of further damage or need for backup, it might be more than two can handle. Orderly, move!" As the orderly bolted for the door with his own equipment, John quickly resolved to learn the man's name before the day's crisis and damages were over.

In a specially equipped medical jeep, it was only minutes before they had arrived at the scene. John vaulted out before they had even come to a full stop, his eyes already running a quick evaluation. His stomach clenched at the sight of one soldier, unmoving and quite clearly beyond their help. He checked the man's pulse anyway and closed his eyes briefly as his earlier prognosis was proved correct.

"Doctor!" The orderly was waving toward him now, bent over another soldier. "This one's alive."

John immediately joined him, hoisting the groaning man into a battle carry without conscious thought and lifted him into the jeep, eyes running automatically over the battlefield as he propped the soldier against the seat. _Left flank not likely to move further this way unless something happens, assume it will, hurry_. He rushed back to help the orderly, who had taken another man to their transport and was swiftly bandaging a wound that could prove fatal in moments if not treated, and bent over another fallen comrade.

This one was alive too, though barely, and John forcibly shut off thoughts of the lives he couldn't save here. He would mourn after his patients were safe.

Between John and his as-yet-unnamed assistant, they had covered most of the immediate scene and John knew they were out of time. In unspoken consent the orderly headed back to the truck as John swiftly perused the scene one last time before turning to go.

He stopped.

John turned back slowly and found his eyes resting on a metal plate of some sort that had been wedged into the sand. Two more steps forward, and he knew he was in range of sniper weapons. He didn't care. Something was drawing him forward…

His breath caught as he saw the soldier lying there.

_ He's breathing_, was his first thought, _that plate must have shielded him from the explosion_… And then he was down on his knees, reaching to grab the man's shoulders and lift him into a battle carry.

Then the man's eyes opened and John froze in absolute petrified shock. Ice-blue, piercing eyes met his, clouded with pain, and John suddenly registered the undeniable _similarity_, the features, that _face_…

Then those eyes narrowed slightly in recognition. "…John?"

_ Sherlock!_ his mind screamed back, but all thought was aside, and John had his friend draped over his shoulder, running for the jeep's relative safety.

* * *

The next fifteen minutes were run purely on instinct and luck, arriving back at the base incredibly unscathed by the rifle fire that had swept their position mere seconds after John's headlong run for cover with Sherlock in his arms. The other medical team had miraculously returned and taken over, and John had firmly ordered that the last patient be moved to his room. As it seemed the man had only taken a bit of shrapnel, they agreed hurriedly in light of more urgent matters and let him be.

John entered his own quarters half an hour later to find Sherlock struggling to rise.

"Easy there, don't move, you'll hurt yourself even more." John shoved Sherlock back down on the medical cot with something less than his usual gentleness, though it was subconsciously calculated to not cause any further damage to his patient. Patient, because John refused to think about this in the middle of a war zone.

Sherlock was still staring at him. "You didn't punch me."

"Well, since you've already been hit in the shoulder – and the leg too, I'd have thought you of all people would have learned something by now – I think it would rather defeat the point, don't you?"

At the complete lack of response, John let out a sigh, rolled back the sleeve of Sherlock's fatigues and began cleaning the wound in his arm. He worked in silence for several minutes before he finally – inevitably – exploded. "What are you _doing_ here?" John demanded furiously. He stared at his friend, stuck between full, desperate joy that his friend was alive and fury at the years of deception. Sherlock stared back, eyes clouding even more than they had been earlier, before he leaned back with a weary sigh and closed his eyes.

"Trying to keep you safe," Sherlock replied hollowly.

John sat back on his heels. The wound wasn't serious, though shock was a possible danger at this point, but he thought it worth the risk. "How is showing up shot in the middle of a battle zone keeping me _safe_?"

Sherlock shook his head and John looked at him. His hair wasn't the right color, he looked worn by whatever he'd been up to in the last year, but otherwise he was as infuriatingly Sherlock as ever. "How, Sherlock?" John asked wearily, not even caring when his voice creaked slightly on the first word.

Sherlock drew a breath.

"There's a sniper who I'm looking for," he began, "Colonel Sebastian Moran, used to be Moriarty's second in command. I think he was the one who was targeting you at the Pool…" John flinched automatically and Sherlock looked away briefly before continuing. "He's military, though, so I enlisted so I could be in the right place to get information.

"John," suddenly he was grasping his wrist, "don't ask about the details. The less you know the better, and the less chance of you getting hurt." His tone was blunt as per usual. John sat still, then gave a strangled smile.

"All right."

Wordlessly, he went back to his work. Sherlock… the soldier… his patient… remained still and let him clean out the shrapnel that had imbedded in his arm and leg, barely flinching even when John administered a topical anesthetic. John finished his work and closed the bag, not daring to look at him.

"John?"

For a moment their gazes met, separated by distance and an immeasurable gap in understanding. Sherlock looked uncharacteristically uncertain. "Don't tell anyone."

"Be safe."

They nodded to each other. John stood, turned, and marched back out, the encounter already locked firmly away in his mind. Because that's how they had always worked – Sherlock as infuriating and secretive as ever, but with a good heart even if it was hidden by a multitude of brick walls and ready insults; and John was the one who kept both their secrets, both their sanity, even if their presence and his willingness cost them both in the end.

And so their encounter was shoved out of sight, out of mind… and when Sherlock finally reappeared in London much, much later, they never spoke of their singular encounter on, not Sherlock's, but John's chosen battlefield.

Not even to each other.


End file.
